


still feel it all

by volantium



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Pining Jaskier, an anti-valentines day vibe check, dumbass geralt, technically a song fic, whack prose full of em dashes & ands & italics because i'm terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volantium/pseuds/volantium
Summary: Geralt falls short the moment he steps inside the tavern and that sweet-saccharine-syrup voice washes over him for the first time in five years.He'd know that voice anywhere—Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	still feel it all

It's been five years.

Not that Geralt is keeping track—except for the fact that he is— 

It's been five years since he was on this side of the Continent. It's been five years of keeping tabs and avoiding them with almost fanatic determination. It's been five years since he saw Jaskier. 

Geralt still remembers with vivid clarity the last time they spoke—if one could even call it that—the way he blamed Jaskier for everything—the desolation of winter around them upon that cursed mountain—the heart-stopping fear of Jaskier dangling over the edge of a cliff saved only by a chain Geralt still has scars across his palm for—

Still not sure why he woke up today with the bard on his mind—

And he can't really forget the way he lashed out—all that anger under the surface of his skin, begging and burning and _bursting_ —blaming Jaskier for Ciri and the djinn and asking to be free of the bard as if he ever could be—

Implying that it was Jaskier's own fault for _almost dying—_

As if Geralt hasn't regretted it all—

And the look on Jaskier's face, as if Geralt had ripped his heart out—demolished everything they'd ever had and—

The way Jaskier suddenly went _silent—_

Jaskier has a reputation now. A reputation for epic tragedies, comedies, the Saga of the White Wolf. It makes sense then—it's been _five years—_ that Geralt is unused to hearing love songs penned by the bard, let alone performed. 

The way Jaskier suddenly went _silent—_ somehow makes this so much worse—

He steps inside the tavern, and falls short as that sweet-saccharine-syrup voice washes over him. 

He'd know that voice anywhere—

_Jaskier._

_It's been five years, and I still feel it all_ falls from Jaskier's lips and Geralt's heart almost stops—

Jaskier is singing about _him._

There's no mistaking it—

Jaskier is singing about him—not Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken—but of _him,_ just Geralt. It's been _decades_ and Jaskier is singing about him and Geralt thinks of every conversation they've had across the campfire and— _I've told you so many times before, but you never take it seriously—_ and Geralt feels like a _fool_. 

Jaskier's singing a love song, except it's not a love song at all—something far more haunting than that—that hooks itself in between the bones of Geralt's ribcage with fatal accuracy— _it's been five years, why can't I let you go—_

And the truth is Geralt never has—has always thought of what the last five years would've been like had Jaskier travelled by his side—his side that feels _empty_ without incessant chatter and errant chords strummed as the sun sets and a magnet for trouble unlike anyone else he's ever known—

And his voice is a soft tenor and he's singing about _your eyes, your mouth, not to talk about the way you smell—_ as if Geralt isn't a Witcher with enhanced sense—half human-half wolf—and there's no way Geralt's ever been able to forget those eyes as blue as a clear summer sky and burning just as bright—how the scent of cedar and cinnamon and the sky before rain lingers even after _five years—_

It's like a lightning strike—the way it hits Geralt that Jaskier has probably—definitely—waxed poetic over his yellow-gold cat eyes and white hair—and something _terrible_ curls in his gut at that—and Geralt _keens_ because he doesn't deserve Jaskier's affection, not after _five years of nothing—_

And his fingers are elegant over the lute's strings, the final note ringing, and _I wish you would feel nervous—_

By the gods, he does, it clenches his stomach into knots, he _does—_

And there's a moment, just as Jaskier stops singing in which the tavern is silent, as if they're all thinking about lost love and _regret_ and it's then that Jaskier happens to look up and Geralt's staring _right at him—_

He can see Jaskier's breath catch, can feel his own stutter in his chest. 

And then the tavern explodes in applause so loud Geralt flinches, the sudden onslaught of noise too sharp for his sense, and he can see Jaskier do the same, as if he's held captured just the same as Geralt—

And that, of all things, makes hope bloom in his chest—unfurling like a rosebud in morning dew—delicate and fragile—

Geralt shakes himself out of the statue-stillness of his body, blinks hard and ignores the sting of his eyes and the lump in his throat as he finds an empty table and settles with his back to the wall and Jaskier across the room hasn't looked away from him—not even has patrons start vying for his attention—

It's— _keep making me nervous—_ unsettling, the way Jaskier's eyes keep flittering back and forth between Geralt and whoever he's speaking with, like Geralt is going to disappear if he looks away for more than a minute—

And all Geralt can think is that Jaskier just sang _I tell myself I'm over you now_ _then I see you and everything just goes to waste_ —and Geralt can't really blame him for the way he's watching—not for _this_ —like Geralt's going to _disappear_ —

And _it's been five years, and I still feel it all_ is the opening line of Jaskier's love song—except it's not a love song at all and it cuts Geralt to the core— 

And finally— _finally—_ Jaskier is making his way through the crowd as Geralt's heart beats staccato in his chest and _keep making me nervous—_

Jaskier comes to a stop just out of reach, at the edge of the table. 

And Geralt can't take this, the way those sky-blue eyes look at him full of sorrow and it aches something _awful_ and the lines of Jaskier's song play over in his head and _I'll wonder if it'll ever change, if you'll ever want to be with me, it's been five years—_

"Jaskier," it comes out a low rasp, sounds like a prayer and a revelation, and Geralt watches Jaskier close his eyes as if he needs to fortify himself and that hurts—

And that _hurts—_

But Geralt can't really blame him—not for _this_ —

And then it's that sweet-saccharine-syrup voice and the sent of the cedar and cinnamon and the sky before rain that says, "Geralt." 

And he sounds like _home_ even when his voice is wrecked with grief from their five years of separation and _I still feel it all_ —

And somehow Jaskier has done it again—seen right through Geralt's carefully constructed walls and torn them down—broke their very foundations—knows what Geralt's feeling before he does—

And somehow Jaskier has written a song that could've been by the both of them—

Jaskier places his hand on the table, weight borne on all five fingers and palm, and the way he leans into it, leans in towards Geralt feels like a concession— _salvation_ —

"Tell me this isn't a coincidence," is the first thing Jaskier says to him after _five years,_ voice cracking and _keep making me nervous_ trips over and over through Geralt's head—

Geralt lies, just this once, because it is, that he stumbled across the same tavern Jaskier was performing in—but it's not a coincidence the way he's avoided any area that so much has a rumour of _when a humble bard graced a ride along—_ and has carefully tacked the seasons and how Jaskier moves with them as he always has—except it's not really a coincidence at all— _why can't I let you go—_ and it's autumn outside, the leaves wine-blood red on the cuspof death—and Jaskier moves with the seasons as he always has so of course Geralt knew he'd be in Posada this time of the year—full circle—so he says, "Jaskier, you've never been a coincidence." 

And Geralt thinks that the last time they saw each other, he blamed Jaskier for everything—he's a man who scorned destiny—blamed Jaskier— _who has never been a coincidence—_ and Geralt's a man who scorned destiny only to call Jaskier that same very thing he's been running from for what's going on a whole lifetime now— 

Yennefer—and gods, speaking of _regret—_ everything with her is complicated, but Geralt can't imagine a life without her in it—even if it means that everything with Jaskier would be different—and he couldn't give an answer when Yennefer asked just _who_ Jaskier was to him—because Jaskier has never been a _coincidence_ —and he and Yen are a house on fire in the worse possible way but that doesn't mean Geralt doesn't care for her—because they are too similar by halves—tied by a djinn's chaotic _untamed_ magic all because Geralt couldn't watch her die for something unattainable—

And then there's The Child Surprise— _Ciri—_ who he's cared for these last _five years_ and trained her in the Ways of the Path and has watched Vesemir take her under his wing—Geralt's told her often enough how the betrothal feast went that Ciri could recite it in her sleep—and Ciri has never _flinched—_ so much stronger than she knows—and all Geralt wants to do is protect her, but Ciri is _destined_ for something much greater than being claimed by the law of surprise—and he's watched Yen turn into a mother figure just like he's turned into a father figure—and maybe Yennefer's wish wasn't so unattainable after all—and it's all kinds of unconventional but he wouldn't change it—

And Jaskier should be a part of their unconventional family— _it's been five years_ —and Geralt is suddenly overcome with how much he wants that—how much he wants to see Ciri listen entrapped by whatever story Jaskier has woven into his music—and how much Geralt already did consider him family even before the last _five years_ even happened—

He’s tied to Ciri and Yennefer—call it magic-fate-destiny—the three of them so intertwined Geralt isn’t sure who is who anymore—the djinn’s magic strong enough to keep him and Yennefer together but not strong enough to overcome whatever has been laying dormant these last five years—like magic-fate-destiny knew he’d always chose _Jaskier_ if given the choice—

 _Everything just goes to waste_ —

And if these last _five years_ have taught him anything it’s that—

The choice was always there—in the way he never was quite able to shake the over-eager bard in the beginning—in the way he saved him from Filavandrel—in the way Geralt has done so many things—in the way he saught a cure to his own wish for _blessed peace_ —

And that’s another thing—everything tainted with Geralt’s _regret_ , because it’s been five _fucking_ years—and the way Jaskier clutched at his bleeding throat with desperate hands flashes to the forefront of his mind and Geralt has the urge to reach over—

 _And I wish you would feel nervous_ —

Jaskier sits across from him, sinking down into the chair with a rare finality— _and I know that it doesn’t make much sense, but you keep making me nervous—_ and Geralt twines his fingers into the bard’s sleeve like he’ll _disappear_ , nerves tangling his stomach to _knots_ and—

“It’s been five years,” he echoes, and Jaskier’s smile is like the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> inspiried by late night insomnia and maro's [still feel it all](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bLbwvB9nvk) and the fact that i lost the first draft of this. find me on tumblr [@volantium](https://volantium.tumblr.com)


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